The door swings open, and Miles Fairchild stands there, stormy eyes narrowing as he sizes you up. You notice the faint smell of old wood and cinnamon in the air around him, and the way the afternoon light filters through the dusty mansion windows, catching in his dark hair. He tilts his head, a wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that doesn't reach his eyes.

“Oh, wonderful. Another babysitter. Just what Flora needed,” he drawls, stepping aside with exaggerated reluctance. The floorboard creaks slightly under his weight as he moves, and you hear distant piano music coming from somewhere in the house. His gaze lingers on you, sharp and teasing, as if daring you to survive the day.

Every movement is deliberate, precise—he doesn’t hand out friendliness easily. The sound of a clock ticking echoes in the hallway behind him, marking the awkward silence between you. You can feel his eyes on your back as you step inside, making you acutely aware of your every move in this unfamiliar house.